Made of Wax
by FloraIrmaTylee
Summary: Jerome Clarke is successful, suave, and has plenty of woman falling head over heels for his alluring nature. You never know, though- sometimes Prince Charming is the one you have to look out for. (written for bs13's horror contest, explicit content mentioned)
1. Chapter 1

**I know I don't write for House of Anubis- but I had to submit something for bs13's horror story contest. I'm sorry it's soooooo ooc, but that's because it's my, what, second fic of these characters? I don't even know. First thing's first- (I'm the realest) yeah but okay this is a Jara thing, probably Jabian, Peddie, Amfie, you get the jist of it. Everything Bianca ships, it's jumbled in here. I think. Sorta. Inspired by lots of things, but mainly Panic! At the Disco and Pierce the Veil, as well as some shows like Hannibal, Dexter, Sherlock, plenty of things I don't watch. Serial killers anyone? Alright so like here's some stuff: **

**1. These characters aren't connected, it's an AU where Anubis House doesn't exist. **

**2. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. BLOOD. GORE. YA GET IT. **

**3. I think it's still T-rated, but I might up it to M if I place some of my worst ideas in here. **

***whispers* I'm sorry it's terrible and the first chapter doesn't make sense and the characters seem sucky but hopefully everything starts tying in soon enough. **

* * *

Everything was red.

Stained red.

Dirty garage floor splattered with it, intermingling with the black hue of the stone, his porcelain skin tinted in the dripping color. He was in awe of it all, leaning against a fallen rack of boxes and chuckling, running soiled fingers through slack blond tufts of hair until the strands ebbed the same rich wine tint.

There was sniffling, sobs, cries of how she couldn't believe he would do this to her, other things he was all too happy to tune out because the silly bint wouldn't shut up and she hadn't for the past half hour as he admired his work.

The pool of crimson around the young woman's tiny, battered frame only grew in length and spread about her tangled auburn hair and ripped apparel. He smirked, oh, how it felt to see her writhing and helpless where no one could hear her screams.

Her hazel eyes were ringed in cuts and scars, fresh and old, arm twisted in an unnatural position and legs curved inward, like a rag doll tossed inside out and thrown into the fetal position, her limp body barely breathing and blood bubbling from her throat as she attempted to speak, the same ruddy pigment trickling down a nasty wound on the back of her head.

Yes, he'd outdone himself this time. It was beautiful, a true masterpiece, if he said so himself. Such a shame she couldn't see it herself, she'd always liked art. Such a creative girl she was, babbling on excitedly about something she adored, auras or whatever she liked. He always tuned her out then, tuned her out now.

Tears were still squeezing out of her eyes, though they wouldn't for long, and he was pleased to see blood fuse into the drops of fluid that rolled down her rosy cheeks.

When she died, it was a shivering thing to watch. Her struggling limbs went slack, her eyes grew glassy, her shuddering chest fell silent and she was dead.

Also a pity she was dead, too, he'd sort of liked to string along this woman. As an engaged man, of course, he never made this relationship intimate. No, the relationships he had on the sides were purely friendships, though it never took long for those women he befriended to try and seduce him, which had happened. The same case with this girl.

Ah, well, they ought to have figured better. Usually, when this happens, he offs them solely for amusement. Artistic sentiments, he justifies, as always. Not that anyone's suspected him, after all, because who would ever guess the measly friend, not even romantically involved with the victim, would be to blame? He supposed he could just reject them, but where would the fun lie in that? It's just a bit of amusement for himself, no real harm done. At least not to himself.

Everyone seeks pleasures, do they not?

Just as smoothly as he'd arrived, Jerome Clarke left the dead carcass on the ground without sparing her a second, regretful glance over his shoulder.

* * *

The laminated pages of the folded menu swished through Alfie Lewis' fingertips, the man's mouth twisted in concentration towards the brightly colored pictures of tantalizing courses. If there was anything Alfie took seriously, it was food. Ordering lunch at a restaurant was top priority at the moment and little else would convince him otherwise, hence the intensity of which he stared at the printed words and photographed food. It was only until he received a sharp jab in between the shoulder blades that Alfie finally tore his fixating eyes away from the tall booklet.

"Lewis," Jerome greeted his oldest friend, seating himself across from Alfie.

"There you are," Alfie said cheerfully, "Was afraid you weren't going to show for a little bit. Twenty minutes late and then some."

"I see how worried you were," Jerome tilted his head to indicate the appetizers Alfie had around the plates.

"You should feel honored. I stress eat."

"You eat anything and everything, Lewis," Jerome said, grinning, opening his own menu to scrutinize the choices.

"Still a bastard as always, Jerry," Alfie declared, but a smile split his face not a second later to let his best friend know that he was kidding.

"So what's new?" Jerome laid his menu flat on the table, arching a perfect eyebrow at his friend.

"New with what?" Alfie played dumb.

"Don't toy with me, Lewis, you planned this lunch for a reason."

"I haven't seen my bestest buddy in three months, that's what," Alfie insisted. "I want to catch up. You fell off the face of the earth, it seemed, getting that position in the fancy-schmancy office of yours and getting engaged to some girl I've never met."

"If I didn't know better, Lewis, I'd say you were jealous," Jerome smirked. "How's the dead-end job as a receptionist?"

"Jealous of you? In your dreams," Alfie was still good-natured about everything, leaning back in his chair. "The job's not that bad anymore, but it sucks not having you there to prank call people on breaks. Though- uh- you remember that blond? Amber Millington?"

Jerome snorted. "How could I forget. Cut off of Daddy's money and working as a secretary. Everything about her just screamed diva. Say, remember when we used to sneak into her desk and ruin all her memos?" He snickered. "My favorite was when we changed that all-company memo she sent out to say '_Amber sucks fat ones'._ I never thought a tiny little bimbo like her could pack a punch like that one she gave me."

"Right, her," Alfie suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Well, we're sort of- together now." He found interest in his menu again, not looking Jerome in the eyes.

"You're joking," Jerome was aghast. "You hooked up with Miss Priss? With Amber 'stick-up-her-arse' Millington? You're bluffing, mate, you've got to be."

"She's not prissy," Alfie muttered in defense of his girlfriend. "She's getting better about the whole 'I'm better than you lower-class imbeciles' stuff she used to say."

"Lewis, one of my fondest memories of working as a receptionist has to be both of us pissing her off, and now you're telling me you and Millington are a thing," Jerome clarified.

"Amber's nice when you get to know her," Alfie defended his choice of a lover. "Besides, that's not why we're here. I just wanted to make sure that you weren't too 'big and important' to hang out with an old friend. That's what this lunch is for."

"Why, Lewis, if you're setting out the hints that you're interested-"

"Oh, piss off. Tell me how you met this mystery girl you're engaged to," Alfie interrupted him.

"Is that what our lunch is coming to, Alfie? Chattering about like foolish schoolgirls?"

"I'm pretending to be interested in the love of your life, so get on with it," Alfie instructed, lifting a tumbler of iced water to his parched lips.

"Her name's Mara," Jerome admitted against his better judgement, "Mara Jaffray. And she's perfect." And for once, the egoistical prat that Jerome Clarke truly was was gone and replaced with a different version of himself that only the thought of his fiancé can bring; a smiling, blushing mere half of a man reduced to the thoughts of sending her roses or reciting poetry to her or even just texting her to say that she was prominent in his thoughts or that he loved her.

"You look lost, Jerry," Alfie said, slurping his water revoltingly, causing his best friend to scowl in Alfie's direction. "Are you in _lurveeeee_?"

"Say that again and I'll kick you in the balls, Lewis."

Alfie wore a proud smirk on his face, having caught his best friend off guard, and opened his mouth to say more had it not been for the loud ringing of his cell phone.

_"Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don't cha-" _

Alfie fumbled to snatch up the vibrating cellular device, thumbs tapping the touchscreen with immense ferocity, cheeks blooming pink while Jerome diverged into noisy laughter.

"Goodness, Lewis, I didn't know so much changed in three months," Jerome cackled at Alfie's ringtone choice, enjoying this moment far more than he should have.

Alfie grumbled something about obnoxious gits before sticking the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"

Jerome was still grinning as Alfie's face turned from embarrassed to concerned.

"I- yes, of course. I'll be right there." Alfie's voice sounded different, purer and more controlled for the person on the other end. "I know, I know, it's going to be okay. I'm right here. I'm on my way," Alfie was talking faster, forehead creased in frustration and worry, moving up out of his seat, harshly shoving the chair back under the table with his leg and lifting his coat. "Don't worry. Just call the police, I'm leaving right now. Love you."

Jerome sat back in his chair, bored, fingers drumming the polished tan wood to show Alfie that he wasn't to be ignored. "What's come up, Lewis?"

"Sorry, Jerome, looks like we're cutting lunch short," Alfie looked more sorry about leaving behind the food than Jerome, casting sad eyes at a circle of crispy onion rings. "Amber just called. She was crying." He looked distressed, jamming his coat on. "Apparently something happened to a friend of hers. I've got to go check up on her. You don't mind?"

"No, not at all," Jerome said simply, standing up. "Of course I don't mind that you're going to meet little Miss Priss." Something about Alfie's statement, however, captured his attention, and he attempted to let the next words leave his mouth in an uninterested manner. "The friend- what's her name?" He had a suspicion that Alfie only confirmed with his next words.

"Willow, I think? This really irritating girl who kinda clung to Amber like a stalker," Alfie said, not really paying attention to what Jerome was asking. "Didn't even know Amber liked her." He left money on the table to cover what he'd gotten to eat of his meal and looked up at Jerome. "Call me, alright?"

"Don't get your hopes up, Lewis- I'm engaged," Jerome quipped.

Alfie shot him a rogue grin, relieved that Jerome wasn't taking it to heart, leaving the restaurant in a flurry.

Hmph. Willow Jenkins was found a lot sooner than he expected. Nosy Amber Millington, Jerome had hoped that she wouldn't be found for another few days or so. Why, if she proved a problem, things would get complicated- and that was nothing Alfie would like if Jerome had to eliminate his best friend's girlfriend, which he would, if Amber as much as stuck her nose into places she shouldn't be.

* * *

Mara Jaffray turned the page of her book, the quiet rustling sound the only noise in the empty flat. Absentmindedly, she turned the diamond ring on her finger in circles, devouring the printed words with single glances. The thing about being an editor and finding a really good book was something she enjoyed. Finding the right reading material, it was like an entire new world or realm was opened just for her, sucking her into the intricate dynamics of the characters and the best realistic situations of the story.

Today, she relished the peace and quiet to finish the thrilling tale. Jerome had gone off to dine with a former acquaintance, and she was alone. Barefoot and relaxing in an oversized purple sweater, her favorite white shorts hidden in the excess cotton fabric, she was comfortable and reading to her heart's content.

She hadn't noticed the time flying by until the door opened, causing her shoulders to jump and her knees to flail, almost succeeding in knocking herself of the plushy red loveseat she was curled up on. She placed a hand over her fast-beating heart, breathing a quiet utter of relief to see that it was only Jerome before twisting her dark hair back into a knot at the back of her neck to go greet her fiancé.

"Jaffray," Jerome lowered his head to kiss her on the lips. "I missed you."

"You're back early," Mara said, surprised as she accepted the sign of affection. "I thought you were meeting an old friend for lunch."

"Something came up." Jerome shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the kitchen counter. "We can have lunch here, together. And don't say that you've eaten, Jaffray, I can see right through you. You've been glued to that book since before I left."

Mara blushed, looking at the manuscript she'd been given to look over, from where it laid on the seat. "I was going to eat, Jerome."

"Were you really?" Jerome sounded amused, looking through the cupboard and swinging open the small wooden door with enough force for it to fall off the hinges, something Mara sighed at.

"Yes, I was," Mara crossed her arms to show she meant business. "And stop opening the cupboards like that. It's damaging the wood."

"It's just wood," Jerome took out a box of dry pasta and set to filling a round pot with running water from the tap. "Care to co-chef?"

Mara rolled her eyes but smiled, stepping to help him chop fresh tomatoes and garlic that she fished from the refrigerator drawer.

"My friend's birthday is next week," Mara brought up the topic as casually as she could, slicing into a red tomato with the tip of the knife.

"Oh?" Jerome's tone of voice was hard to analyze.

"I was thinking you could come with me," Mara continued. "None of my friends have met you yet."

Jerome's back was rigid as he stirred. "I assumed we wouldn't mix our friends, Jaffray."

"I-I'm not saying that you have to go," Mara tried, "But we are engaged to be married and they do want to attend the wedding, so I'd like for them to get used to you."

Jerome hummed, leaving his station by the stove and leaning against his fiancé to rub her shoulders sensually. "If it means a lot to you, I'll go."

"You will?" Mara beamed, craning her neck to meet Jerome's gaze.

"I will," Jerome assured her, placing another kiss on her mouth. "When is it?"

"Wednesday."

"Wednesday?" Jerome faltered. "I thought it would be on a weekend."

"She wanted to have it on her actual birthday," Mara said cheerfully, leaning back into his skillful hands.

"I'm going to be working, is all," Jerome explained. Upon seeing her crestfallen face, he kept talking. "But I haven't taken a vacation yet. I'm sure I can get the day off."

"No, I know your work is important," Mara dismissed it and shrugged out of his grasp, going back to her chopping. "It's just a silly birthday party."

"We're going to that party together, Jaffray," Jerome went back to his pasta, deeming it ready for the draining process after tasting. "Whether you like it or not."

When she smiled and opened a can of tomato sauce, he smiled back.

* * *

The car radio hummed a sweet classical love song, the mellow tune drifting out of the worn speakers to fill the vehicle with soothing music. A quick hand turned the dial to an inserted CD and that peace of mind quickly shattered.

"Joy," Fabian Rutter sighed, putting the music down and cringing at the heavy guitar that blared. "I liked that song."

"I like this song," Joy Mercer childish replied, punching her best friend's arm though he was the one driving. "Now come on, sing along with me. _Trying to consume, the drug in me is you_-"

"I'm not singing to that," Fabian replied, with a face not unlike that of a child who'd sucked a sour lemon.

"Your loss," Joy bounced around in the passenger carseat, only restrained by the sharp seatbelt digging into her shoulder.

Fabian lowered the music again as he pulled into the driveway, mumbling under his breath about devilish spawn creating music.

"My birthday's next week," Joy unbuckled her seatbelt, unlocking the car doors and not waiting for Fabian. "I hope you don't mind that I invited everyone over to your place."

"It's practically your place too, the way you bring stuff over here all the time," Fabian said, smiling as he slammed his car door shut.

"Yeah, but that's because I hate my roommate. She always has her boyfriend over and being the third wheel blows," Joy shook her tousled brown hair out from under the bright yellow hat she wore, raking her fingers through the strands until it went back to a slightly more volume-ized version of her hair.

"I thought you said KT was nice," Fabian said, opening the white wooden door that lead to his small one-story home, stepping aside to let Joy enter first.

"She is, but that Mick bloke she always has around makes it hard for us to become friends," Joy stated. "Plus, she's so- _American_ and it gets annoying sometimes."

"Well, you can have your birthday party here," Fabian changed the subject, switching on the lights leading to the front of the living room.

"Thanks, Fabes!" Joy slapped his back in a show of endearment and settled on his worn maroon couch, reclining against the fading pillows and tossing her head back. "I can't wait for all of us to get together. It's been a while since we've all left college, huh?"

"It's not everyday you turn twenty-four," Fabian took a seat next to his friend. "I wonder how everyone else is doing."

"Oh, you know Mara, or at least what she's said in e-mails. Engaged to a bloody perfect guy and a top editor," Joy said.

"Patricia, the criminal investigator," Fabian thought of another friend of theirs with a smile.

"We really only had two friends in college," Joy thought it over. "We are so sad, Fabes."

"Only takes two to party," Fabian offered.

"Yeah, you're right," Joy stared at the ceiling but then started at another thought. "Maybe Mara will bring her fiancé! That Jerome guy- and you can finally make a guy friend!"

"I have- guy friends," Fabian insisted, though it was weak. "Remember that group of fellows from college?"

"Fabian, the chess team were so not friends."

"...that's not who I meant," he grumbled.

"Anyway, just the four of us- maybe five- getting drunk in your house. That's the best way to do it."

"Drunk? In my house?" Fabian groaned at the thought. "Patricia drinks enough for three people, Joy, you know that."

Joy poked his side playfully. "Oh come on, it'll be fun. A chance for you to sway from your good and pure facade-"

"_Facade_?"

"-and admit that you like a nice shot every now and then."

"But I don't."

"Yes, you do."

* * *

It's only been three months, but Nina Martin was sure that her boss is the perfect man for her.

Everything down to his designer suits, his styled hair, his swagger and his voice, could make any woman go weak in the knees. Simply being around him wasn't good for the faint of heart.

Well, she liked him. Plain and simple. There was attraction, she was attracted to Jerome Clarke, and she wanted to get to know him past a work atmosphere. Why, they already spoke like friends, but she did want more than that. Which wass why this morning, she studied her outfit with intensity.

Dirty blond hair pulled into a chignon, black pencil skirt, white button up and matching black pumps. She unbuttoned en extra button on her blouse to give a more relaxed ambience but at the same time radiate confidence and work ethic, taking a few calming breaths to level her anxious stomach before laying her slim finger on the round black button that would decide her fate.

The intercom lying on the polished mahogany desk buzzed to life with the same vibrating sound as always and it made Jerome jump to a start, ripping his unwavering focus on business matters.

"Mr. Clarke, there is something we need to discuss."

He pressed the button to respond, a smile tugging on his lips. "I apologize, Ms. Secretary, but fuck off."

"Jerome, unlock your door and let me in."

Jerome still kept the grin but did as she requested, opening the door and sweeping in his secretary with a dramatic bow, spreading his arms wide.

"Theater fanatic," Nina nodded once and smiled at Jerome coquettishly, clicking into the room in her heels and making herself comfortable on the leather futon facing the large circular desk Jerome had obtained in his new job.

"I'm no theater fan, unless you want me to be," Jerome winked as he sat down.

"Can't say I am," Nina cocked her head and coyly batted her eyelashes.

"Then thank god I don't know anything about theater," Jerome smirked. "Now, what is it, Martin?"

"If you aren't too busy, I was wondering if you'd take a lunch break with me," Nina stated, leaning forward onto his desk, tilting her head to the side and looking into Jerome's eyes, smiling a wide grin that made her look younger than she was.

"No, Martin, I am busy," Jerome said instead, hands flittering about in a stack of papers he had on his desk. "You take a lunch break and have the intern fill in for you. I will dine later."

"No you won't," Nina said, "You'll keep working away here."

"Now, Nina, I say this as your boss. Go away."

"Real mature, Jerome," Nina scooted back. "When will you pretend to get along with me?"

"When you stop being a bloody pain," Jerome's smile made it seem anything less than friendly banter. "Go."

"I'm bringing you something from the Italian place down the street," Nina declared.

"You do that."

Nina left his office, rolling her eyes, and went back to her cubicle to get her purse, catching sight of the intern. "KT!"

KT was the swarthy, young, pretty intern, always smiling and always eager, and she jumped up to meet Nina's request as soon as Nina came close.

"Hey, Nina," she said joyfully, setting down some papers on the fax machine.

"I'm going to pick up some food for Jerome and I," Nina said. "Mind filling in?"

"Ooh, you and Jerome," KT gladly accepted, scooting to sit at Nina's desk and smoothing back escaped black curls from her ponytail before directing her full attention at the secretary, leaning closer to the young woman and lowering her voice to a girlish giggle. "Has he asked you out yet?"

"I have the feeling he doesn't want a relationship with me," Nina bit her lip and chewed on it thoughtfully, sliding her purse over her shoulder. "He's my boss."

"He's also shamelessly flirting with you," KT clucked her tongue. "Look, I say it's worth a shot."

"To what? Ask him out?" Nina smoothed down her skirt and didn't meet KT's eyes. "He could have a girlfriend, for all I know. We hardly even talk."

"So find out if he does," KT said. "What's the worst that could happen? If he's got a girlfriend, you bow out. That's it."

"He's different, you know?" Nina pondered the subject of Jerome with interest, lips pursing. "I don't know what it is about him."

"Well, he is cute. He's smart and he's interesting, and he's not weird like other guys," KT said, raising her eyebrows and flashing another grin. "I don't blame you for liking Jerome. I'm pretty sure every girl does."

"Yes, but I shouldn't," Nina sighed. "It's unprofessional. Words gets around."

"But I've heard so much about him from you!" KT cried. "He seems like an angel, the way you describe him. Not that I'd know, he doesn't give me the time of day. Still, if you think he's perfect, then go for it."

"He's just so charming and sweet, and just like you said, an angel, so why would Jerome Clarke go for me? He looks like the type of guy who's never made a mistake in his life."


	2. Chapter 2

**MAJOR BLOOD DEATH STUFF. **

**I MIGHT MAKE THIS ****_M_**** RATED BECAUSE DAMN I'M AN EVIL BITCH. Dude someone dies I'm pretty sure you know who it is by now but like. **

**Don't read it if you aren't into that (or if you thought this would be a cute, sweet story where Jerome stopped his ways because that's nothing compared to what will happen). **

**It's a horror story. Nothing more, nothing less, though it's got some moments. So, if it deserves an M rating, do say so and I'll change that real quick (don't want children reading this)**

**Not my best but meh I tried. **

* * *

Mara was dusting when she discovered the closet.

Cleverly sheltered in an alcove just under the stairs, painted to look like the wall, she might've missed it had she not run the blue plumes of the duster over the doorknob of such closet.

It was wooden, and she was careful to turn it lest it be old, but no no avail. The door was either locked or jammed, she didn't know which. Her first instinct was, of course, to leave it because it probably belonged to old residents. However, upon inspection of the feathery duster, she found no dust on it. That lead her to believe that the closet had been used before, and recently.

Of course, she could just leave it alone. It was probably a place for Jerome to store whatever he wanted, and she respected that. Though, engaged couples really shouldn't have secrets...she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully, staring at the doorknob, letting her fingers lightly trail over it.

A part of her told her it was an invasion of privacy. Another part of her said that she ought to know everything about Jerome if they were getting married. Why, she must've stayed there for a good amount of minutes before her mind was made up.

It took bent hangers, bobby pins, nail files, and a regretted call to Patricia, but Mara got the door open. Cracking it open, she was not greeted by a typical musty smell that old rooms gave off, instead, it smelled of cleaning supplies and hospital room.

Pulling it open all the way to get some light into the situation, Mara's dark eyebrows practically raised to her hairline at the sight.

It was weapons.

Not just one or two weapons, either, there were glittering knives of all sizes, and of all types. Long curved scythes, short daggers, butcher knives, meat cleavers, etc. The amount of guns in there were also alarming, the carefully kept pistols, machine guns, and others she couldn't identify.

Even worse so, an array of small bombs carefully arranged on a shelf and that sight was the one that did it.

Mara took a step backward, hitting her head on the stairs and wincing, but she managed to slam the door shut before she ran out of there.

* * *

Today, she wouldn't chicken out. Nina Martin was going to march into his office and ask out Jerome Clarke. She must've rehearsed the scene so many times in her shower, called KT to prepare, gone over every practice in the book, but it did nothing to calm her nerves.

Nina pressed the button on the intercom. "Mr. Clarke, there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Almost instantly, the response came in a friendly tone. "Sod off, Martin."

"Jerome, I know you're not busy." Then Nina was smiling again, put at ease almost, at the thought of Jerome smirking at his intercom.

"Oh, come in. Door's open."

Nina did, lingering in the doorframe, hoping she looked alluring enough to catch his eye, but not enough to look slutty.

Jerome didn't look up once, just kept stacking folders and marking things with a red pen clenched between his thumb and forefinger as casually as you please.

Nina laid her hands flat on Jerome's desk, right in front of his face, so close that he could see the ruby red nail polish that decorated her polished nails.

"Martin," Jerome said cooly, looking up at her with indifference.

"I was wondering," Nina started before she thought things over again, "If you were free tonight."

Jerome only arched one eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Jerome, please," Nina said exasperatedly, "Just answer the question."

"No, Martin, I am not busy tonight," Jerome said flatly. "Now what do you want?"

"I'd like to go out with you." Nina declared it boldly, more confident than the blush spreading across her face said.

"Like- a date," Jerome drawled and leaned back in his desk chair, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Yes," Nina breathed in relief, "Like a date."

"I don't _know_," Jerome grinned, stretching out his words like he had someplace to be.

"Jerome," Nina sat down in front of his desk, feeling small all of a sudden, like a kid called to the principal's office, toying with the hem of the day's pencil skirt nervously. "I'd like us to be more than- colleagues, if I can be so bold."

"So you'd like us to go on a date," Jerome smiled, a predatory grin that made Nina shiver. "I'm not so sure about that, Martin- I'd say let's go on an outing, as friends, and see where that hits off, shall we?"

"You would, though?" Nina let herself smile.

"I would," Jerome confirmed. "But let's just not tell anyone."

Nina was taken aback, drawing behind in her seat. "Not- tell anyone?"

"Rumors travel fast," Jerome didn't look at her, studying a stack of papers and tidying them. "I'd prefer it if it was just between us, don't you agree? That way, if we move in any sort of direction after friends, we keep it just as us."

"I assumed we were already friends," Nina said, quietly.

"We are, Martin, but let's just pretend, for the sake of tonight, yes?" Jerome smirked. "Let's talk location, then- I'm going to meet you outside of the pub a few streets over at eight and you won't tell anyone."

"Right," Nina thought, just once, how bizarre his terms were, but shrugged them off. "Okay."

"Thank you, Martin, it's been a pleasure," Jerome waved his hand to dismiss her, focused attention gone. "Now go work. I don't pay you for nothing."

Nina smiled, genuinely this time, and she left Jerome's office.

Jerome turned to make sure that the door closed carefully in her wake, and dialed Mara's number. Upon getting her answering machine, he muttered, "Mara, love- I'm going to be working late tonight. Don't wait up for me."

Nina walked back to her desk, where KT sat, and the girl waited for her news.

"Well?" KT practically squealed in anticipation.

"He-" Nina thought of what Jerome said and she shrugged nonchalantly. "He's confusing, that's all."

"So no date?" KT's face fell.

Nina felt bad about lying to her friend. "No."

"Bummer," KT said, pouting, but recovering quickly. "Hey, come over to my apartment tonight! My roommate won't mind, we can watch chick flicks and order in."

"I-I would, but I have something else to do tonight," Nina lied, eyes darting everywhere nervously. "My grandmother's sick. You know how that goes."

"Oh. I hope she gets better," KT said solemnly.

"Er- thank you."

* * *

The silver pot bubbling on the stove made grumbly noises, telling Joy that her water was boiling at last and she turned down the volume on the TV to lower the black dial that reduced the flame.

Humming out of tune, she tossed vegetables into her soup, mixing everything with one spoon and dabbing it with her fingertip to taste. No, it needed something, but what? Looking through the cupboards, she found some spices and heck, why not, she sprinkled them in.

She really had to learn her way around Fabian's kitchen.

"It smells like something died in here."

Patricia Williamson was plenty of things, but polite was not one of them. Subtle, not so much. Blunt and rude, that was more of Patricia's style. However, being Joy's oldest friend, Joy loved her for it.

"I'm cooking," Joy informed her.

"You don't cook," Patricia narrowed her eyes at Joy like she was trying to see right through her.

"I've started to cook," Joy tilted her head in a proud manner, waving her spoon around in the air. "Try the soup."

"I'm not tasting whatever died in that pot," Patricia reiterated her earlier point.

"Your loss," Joy declared.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Patricia made herself comfortable on the couch Joy had abandoned, tossing her coat and her bag onto the table without another thought.

"_Fabian_ is at work," Joy said, "It's just us."

"Thank God. He's such a bore."

"No he isn't, Patricia."

"He's your boyfriend, of course you're going to say things like that."

"He is not my boyfriend," Joy's face flamed as she leaned over her soup.

"But you wish he was."

"...no, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Patricia, come try my freakin' soup!"

"Not when it tastes like bodies."

"There are no dead bodies in my soup! Unless the chicken counts. I put a dead chicken in here."

"What, a chicken you found in the town dump?"

"A chicken I found in Fabian's freezer!"

Patricia grinned a snarky smile. "I'm teasing, Joy. Of _course_ I'll taste your soup."

Joy huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "Now you're just being sarcastic."

"Well, someone's got to do it."

Joy turned, muttering about her ridiculous friends. "Hey, so how's Eddie?"

Patricia grunted. "Oh, you mean that fucking prick? We broke up."

"Patricia, that makes three times in one week."

"He's a bastard."

Joy sighed like she'd heard every excuse, which she might've. "What did he do this time?"

"He called me a name."

"What did he call you?" Joy asked, but then jumped at the idea of giving her input. "Eddie's not usually the type to cuss in the relationship, that's you- wait, let me guess! Bitch? Cunt? Whore? Queen of the witches?"

"No," Patricia gave Joy an odd look. "He called me 'sweetheart'."

Joy stopped in her tracks. "He called you sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"Why is that a bad thing?"

"I told him not to call me that, damnit."

"So you broke up with him."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to!" Patricia snapped, running a hand through her tousled red strands of hair, cursing Eddie under her breath.

Joy sighed again, and turned the soup off the burner. "I know you love Eddie."

"What?" Patricia sputtered, like that was a ridiculous notion. "No, I don't."

"You do, otherwise you wouldn't get this defensive," Joy said, ignoring Patricia's rapid retorts. "You love Eddie and that's why you keep breaking up with him every time he says something affectionate."

"I do not," Patricia insisted.

"You do."

Patricia scowled and sunk back further into the plushy couch. "That's not why I came over, okay? We're not talking about Eddie."

Joy shot Patricia a sad look. "You fought with Eddie and that's why you're here."

"...maybe."

"Come eat soup with me," Joy said, serving plates and ladling her creation with a large spoon.

"No."

"Chicken soup is good for the soul."

"Isn't that a goddamn book title?" Patricia's scowl was not going away.

"That's besides the point. What's important is that you come here and have some soup."

It took coaxing, threats, and stealing Patricia's cell phone, but both girls sat next to each other at Fabian's table with spoons in their hands and bowls in front of their faces.

"How's work?" Joy asked to start a new conversation, tasting her soup like a proud mother. "Any new cases?"

"There's one," Patricia grumbled, stabbing a potato with the blunt end of her spoon. "Willow Jenkins. Murdered in her house and no one knows who did it."

"That's horrible," Joy's eyes were wide. "What happened?"

"Dunno. All I know is that there's no fingerprints left anywhere so whoever killed her knew how to hide their tracks," Patricia said. "It's sort of cool."

"That is not cool. That's horrendous, Patricia."

"Whatever you say," Patricia muttered, tasting Joy's soup. "Gross, Joy, what the fuck did you put in here?"

"It's not gross," Joy mumbled, lowering her gaze to the table. "Stop changing the subject. What happened to the girl?"

"Oh, stabbed, I guess. Terribly. Coroner found her intestines spewing out of her throat, brains smushed on the floor, blood everywhere."

"I'm eating," Joy moaned, clamping a hand over her mouth.

"Hey, you asked for it."

"Besides that, how far are you?" Joy asked.

"No real suspects," Patricia shook her head. "The others are thinking that it might be an unrelated killer, but whoever came into Willow's house, she must've known them because there were no breaking and entering signs anywhere. That or she was an idiot and left her door unlocked, which I doubt."

"Don't speak ill of the dead," Joy reprimanded her friend but swallowed another gulp of soup, looking thoughtful. "Maybe the killer was someone she vaguely knew."

"Yeah, but that's the hard part. Finding acquaintances, that really don't care if she lives or dies, versus friends, that might not know all those people."

"Let's stop talking about dead people, it's scaring me," Joy decided then.

"Is it, Joy? Does hearing about bleeding, suffering mortals terrify you at night? Knowing this killer lives rather close to you and could come after you in any given-"

"Patricia!" Joy cried out.

"I was kidding, Joy, honestly-"

Joy frowned and ate her soup in silence, shooting looks at Patricia all until her bowl was scraped clean.

* * *

Nina had planned her outfit for the date with Jerome meticulously, with little room for error. A stunning dress that she always deemed to low cut and short for other occasions and a deep midnight blue would do, with glittery silver heels, bright red lipstick and her hair in curls, hanging around her face in ringlets.

She felt confident. And perhaps, this "outing" with Jerome would lead to an actual date. Maybe they'd become more than friends. That alone made Nina shiver as she waited outside of the pub, and it wasn't just from the night chill as she stood under fluorescent yellow lightbulbs.

"Martin."

It took a while for her to recognize Jerome. He had on his work slacks, but his white button up had rolled up sleeves and the top buttons undone, tie lazily stretched down with the shirt. His hair, usually slicked back to look professional, was washed out and falling over his face in the most heart melting manner, but there was something wrong. His hair, the blond color she so adored, was dyed black. It looked longer than she imagined, too, and she was confused as he slid on a pair of oversized sunglasses onto his nose.

"Jerome," Nina muttered, just a whisper, as he took her arm. "But why-"

"I said no one can find out, can they?" Jerome looked her in the eye, or at least she thought he did (she couldn't tell with those pesky glasses). "You didn't tell anyone, I presume."

"No!" Nina blurted. "No, I told no one that I was meeting you tonight- not even my cat." That was true, regretfully, but she winced at the thought.

Jerome chuckled. "Extreme, Martin, but acceptable. Ladies first." He swept her into the pub and lead her to a barstool, him talking to the bartender like they were old friends and sliding Nina a martini.

"Thank you," Nina tried to say over the pulsing music, but Jerome just nodded like it was expected, taking a glass of scotch for himself, flicking his wrist and nodding mutely at the bartender. The man nodded and set up a line of shots.

Somewhere between the fifth drink, Nina wasn't thinking straight. Her head was rolling on her neck, eyes closing shut to the beats, hands trailing over the smooth wood of the bar and falling into the soft fabric of Jerome's shirt, inhaling the scent of his cologne.

"Martin, you're smashed. Go home."

"I'm not," Nina mumbled, tracing circles on Jerome's knee. "I'm just _tireeeed_."

"Go to your house and sleep, Nina."

"This wasn't a date," Nina sighed instead, "Was it."

"No, Martin, I'm afraid I've never had any romantic feelings for you. Nor will I ever."

Nina suddenly grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him in close, nuzzling his neck with her nose and craning her head up to give Jerome a kiss, hoping he'd change his mind.

"Stop," Jerome said forcefully, pushing Nina away, his tone cold. "I'm engaged. You're my secretary, and I'm your boss."

Nina felt every nerve turn to ice and could've sworn her heart stopped beating. "Engaged?" she croaked.

"I love her," Jerome said. "I'd never cheat on her, she's too bloody perfect."

"Than why go on a date with me?" Nina asked, slightly angry that he could just fucking lead her on like that when he was engaged. "Why flirt all those times in the office?"

"Outing, Martin, this is an outing. Secondly, your delusional little mind thinks I'm flirting with you but you're barking mad if you ever thought such a thing."

"A fling," Nina remarked bitterly. "I'm a practically married man's fling and it's not even a romantic fling!" She stood up shakily in her heels, moving towards the door of the pub. "This night was a waste."

"I disagree," Jerome's hand was on her waist and stopped her from leaving, but his smile wasn't teasing or friendly, instead, it scared her. "The night's just started."

* * *

Patricia flicked on the lamp above her desk, watching the beam of light hit her papers and she spread them out, a black and white picture of Willow Jenkins smiling broadly up at her.

Nothing in the case made sense. Willow had worked in a small office as a receptionist for her work, but there was nobody she clashed with, not reported infractions. The woman's record was clean, no scrapes with gangs or even the police over the years.

Why would a woman, clearly innocent and without any consequence, die for no reason?

"Patricia, you've been working all day."

Patricia made a noncommittal noise but otherwise did not look in the direction of her (ex)boyfriend. "I've got a job, unlike some people."

"I work at a grocery store. Not the 'career' you have, but I happen to like it."

"That's because you flirt with every girl that walks past you," Patricia jotted something down on her paper, sparing Eddie a quick glance from where he sat behind her on the sofa. He needed to shave, she noted, with stubble growing on his chin, and he was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers which meant he was getting ready for bed.

Patricia liked to observe people. Made it a hobby, even. Just staring at Eddie's relaxed posture slumped against the tan pillows, the way his smile was lazy, he was certainly in a good mood and was planning to convince her to go to bed.

"If I can't flirt with you, and I can't flirt with other women, where does that leave me?"

"Flirt with the chair," Patricia replied, flatly, not really caring because he was stupid, stupid to try and entice her back into his arms.

"C'mon, you broke up with me again and you won't even tell me what I did wrong," Eddie said.

"Because I don't want to," Patricia snapped, like they'd been going over this for a long time. "Now fuck off, Edison."

"Not until you get back together with me." Eddie stood and practically pried the papers from Patricia's fingers. "Go to sleep."

"I am not getting back together with you," Patricia tugged her papers back. "I'm never going to date you again, so don't try and convince me."

"That's what you said last week," Eddie looked unabashed and snatched the folder, holding it above his head. "And the week before that, and the week before that-"

"Stop it," Patricia swatted at his chest. "You arsehole, give that back!"

"Come sleep with me, sweetheart," Eddie said, smiling a lopsided grin.

"I am not- you prick, stop suggesting nauseating ideas-"

"I meant actual sleeping, Patricia, quit coming onto me-"

Patricia gave his foot a hard stomp like a child might, and Eddie yelped girlishly and doubled in half, letting Patricia get a hold on her case.

"You monster," Eddie bent to rub his foot gingerly. "I'm going to lose a toe one of these days."

"It'd be an improvement," Patricia said wryly, but she sort of smiled. She couldn't stop herself from letting her fingers brush his flannel shirt and Eddie took his hand in hers.

"Just a nap. Then you can wake up early and keep working," Eddie said solemnly. "Okay?"

Patricia figured she could keep resisting or just cave like she always did, and she was about to pick her first choice before she yawned and she couldn't bring herself to reject him another time.

"Okay."

When Eddie kissed her, it was soft and sweet, and she just knew that she'd end up with him as her boyfriend again by the morning.

* * *

The pub floor was sticky and littered with crushed cups, glass, garments left behind and spilled food. The janitor moved slowly through the mess, mumbling to himself about the ridiculous antics of young people, and his back wasn't as springy as it used to be as he approached an older age, deciding to start with the bathrooms and mop up before he swept.

Something caught in the wheels of his transportable mop bucket, however, and the janitor stopped in his tracks to clean whatever it was off. It was strange, though, some weird red liquid that was wet and impossibly familiar, thicker than wine but of the same color.

He followed the trail out of pure curiosity, shoes squeaking dutifully, eyes trekking the path it made before coming to an abandoned storeroom that no one ever used.

Strange, he thought, even he couldn't get in there, and he was the janitor. The door was unlocked and that was how he discovered her.

The woman's body.

The white, dusty tiles were slick with blood and the old supplies that were piled up everywhere toppled like a struggle went on. Then the body itself, oh, the body- a rope hanging from the rafters is tightly tied around the woman's neck, so tightly that he can see rough scratches from the itchy coil.

Her eyes were closed, but her face is a mess. Gashes are slunk into her cheeks and wounds long since stopped bleeding cover her arms and legs like she'd be stabbed repeatedly- and not just stabbed. Whoever had hurt her made it painful and long lasting.

Her body was mutilated. Her stomach had been slit and her ribs hacked at until he could see the white of her bone, the only color on the milky white the red splatters of blood. Muscle and tissue were visible on all the lacerations, even hanging from the corpse. Her severed lungs were drooping, heart ripped in two, quite literally as the useless organ hung on a thin artery.

The janitor was sick on the floor, his stomach upchucking in dry heaves as the image burned into his memory. Nothing, nothing had ever indicated this happened right under their noses- and the worst part was, he couldn't say who did it, not that he paid attention to the many people milling through the pub each day.

There was nothing other than her bloody carcass and the stain of black hair dye.


End file.
